


Metamorphosis

by EnglishAmericanGreekGeek15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Molly is no longer a pushover, Post Reichenbach, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglishAmericanGreekGeek15/pseuds/EnglishAmericanGreekGeek15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People change, that's just a fact of life and Molly knows it. But she never expected that meeting Sherlock Holmes would change her so much, affect her so much. In the time she knows the consulting detective, she uses boy bands as coping mechanisms, cleans like crazy, helps fake a suicide, and gets her long lost fire back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a Sherlock and Molly romance because I just felt like Molly really deserved to be noticed by Sherlock after all she's done for him! I also feel like Molly is a lot more hurt and angry with Sherlock than she likes to admit, so that's how the whole cleaning/listening to boy bands came from. Please tell me what you think :)

Molly Hooper had a...sort of ritual every two weeks or so. When all of her bundled up feelings reached a precipice and Sherlock, with his crass, cavalier, and hurtful words made her want to commit emotional suicide, she cleaned like a bloody mad woman.

But that wasn't all.

She had a tendency to listen to boy band music and sing along and dance around her flat in her panties and an over-sized Doctor Who T-shirt. And in a way, it was just so incredibly cleansing. When she was younger, Molly had been inclined to anger more than she would have liked, she had had a fire in her that was a blazing, burning thing. But when her father had died, the fire in her soul had too. It was like a candle in the middle of a windstorm. Of course, the flame had fought and then it had flickered in the midst of all the tears she cried and then it spluttered and died because Molly was so, so tired of being headstrong, so tired of feeling all these emotions. She decided to be calm and rational and well, just be plain. Maybe it was because she thought that if she was all those things she could escape the pains of life that everyone else had to endure.

And then Sherlock comes barreling into her lab, like he owns the place, demanding to see a body and changes everything. He shifts the very axis that her world tilts on. It takes less than six months for her to fall in love with him and for the next six she wonders why. She stays up late at night and turns it over and over in her mind until she has the worst migraine that even excedrin has to work at to banish.

In that first year, Sherlock shakes the very foundation that Molly has built for herself since her fathers death. It's the first time in six years that Molly's fire is ignited again. And what she wants to do is rip Sherlock to shreds when the git flirts with her and manipulates (well, he thinks he's manipulating her into getting what he wants.) her feelings and then tears her down the next day. It's degrading, it's infuriating, and above all, the thing that Molly hates most, is that it hurts.

God, does it hurt.

So, she finds a way to cope. She cleans vigorously. She sings. She dances. And for a couple of hours, she feels better.

The bands vary from N'sync to Backstreet Boys to Dream Street (That was a moment of weakness!) and when she was really angry, she brought out the big guns, Pink. Pink wasn't a boy band but she had a knack for making angry music and every once in a blue moon, Molly needed angry music, craved it like she craved chocolate and cheesy romance novels when she was pmsing.

After the Christmas Party, where Sherlock had verbally decimated her self confidence and she just let him, just stood there and took it, something changed inside of Molly.

She remembers that moment like this:

The fire in her soul makes itself known for a moment and she wants to lash out and verbally decimate Sherlock (because the man could afford to be knocked down a peg or two.) but she knows she can't. She takes the highroad. Until she gets home that is, where she uses music as an outlet. That night, she cleaned until her hands were raw and she indulged in angry scream singing to So what.

Molly really can't believe she helps Sherlock so much. She can't believe that she lets herself be disrespected like that. Sometimes, she entertains the idea of going to a pub, getting completely and utterly smashed (was that what everyone was calling it these days?) and let some strange man take her home. But she isn't like that, never has been and refuses to ever be. So she cleans and cleans and cleans until the anger and loneliness melts away.

Then, Moriarty. Or, Jim from I.T., she thinks sourly.

When she helps Sherlock with the fall, that final piece just clicks. She loves him because despite all his short comings, he cares. He doesn't want anyone to get hurt, he doesn't want the people he cares for to be hurt. And when he tells her she counts, she wants to scratch his eyes out like an angry kitten because, God, he just really has the worst timing, doesn't he? Molly hates having to lie to everyone, to pretend to mourn with everyone when she knows for a fact that when Sherlock dove from the roof of St. Barts, he didn't die. But that's a burden she had to bare.

So she cleans and cleans and listens to the Backstreet Boys like they're back in style.

When John meets Mary Morstan and she helps him heal from the death of his best friend, Molly really is happy for him. Truly, she is. But it also makes her realize that Sherlock has never loved her like she loves him and she is done with being docile, sweet, mousey Molly. Because that's just not who she is and it's time for her to be true to herself. That doesn't mean that she has to blow up at people or make them feel bad about themselves but it does mean that she is going to stand up for herself again and stop being a doormat for people to walk over. She has found her fire again and she is not going to relinquish it to anyone, ever again.

Molly's just sorry that Sherlock had to fake his suicide for her to realize these things.

When Sherlock returns, everyone's reactions are what was to be expected. Mrs. Hudson sobbed and wouldn't let Sherlock go. Her fingers literally had to be peeled from his coat. John cursed, socked Sherlock in the face, and promptly passed out. Mary simply shook his hand and said she had heard a lot about him and that she was glad he wasn't dead. (Molly had always liked Mary.) And Molly merely smiled because she was glad that Sherlock was finally back home.

He was different, it was very subtle, but it was there. It was there in the way he weighed his words more carefully, the way he asked rather than demanded. Molly knew John noticed too and Detective Inspector Lestrade. He was the same old Sherlock but then again, he wasn't.

Molly knew that as she was noticing these new changes in him, he was noticing or rather, deducing, the new changes in her. She wonders if he had deduced that she's decided to move on. She knows that he has noticed how he can't simply bat his eyelashes and look at her with his brilliantly blue eyes and get whatever he wants. But then again, Sherlock wouldn't do that now, because Molly Hooper really does count, she just doesn't believe it, even though he's said it.

It's four o'clock on a Friday, just when she's coming back from the restroom where she had changed into her date clothes, the ones that Mary had come shopping with her to buy. It's a simple navy blue dress that comes in at her waist, accentuating it and the neckline just shows the very top of her chest,(enough to tempt but not tease, Mary's words.) The dress is a little shorter than normal for her, just above the knee, but she feels good in it, dare she think it, sexy, and more importantly, like herself. They paired it with simple red wedges in a show of patriotism. Molly didn't curl her hair, instead opting for a gentle wave and light, natural makeup.

She feels like she's walking on air...and then she hears two sets of hurried footsteps coming down the hallway and her heart sinks, absolutely plummets. She sighs and leans back against her desk, arms crossed, waiting for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to come bursting into her lab. It happens almost instantly and they both look slightly taken aback (and out of breath.). Molly smiles and pushes up off of the desk.

"What can I do for you two?" When they just stare at her, she starts to feel self conscious and then she starts to get slightly irritated. She raises an eyebrow, impatient. John's entire expression changes.

"Oh God, Molly. It's tonight isn't it? I'm really sorry." He elbows Sherlock. "We're sorry. Mary is going to kill me." John mutters and then he's looking at her again.

"You look great Molly." Before she can say thank you, Sherlock is speaking.

"Your going on a date?" His deep, baritone voice sends a shiver up her spine and she really doesn't want to decipher the reason for the frown etched into his face because she finally might have an actual chance of moving on from him and she is not going to let him muck this up. The corner of her mouth lifts, at least he had the decency to ask her instead of embarrass her, which she would have not taken lying down, and deduce her feelings about her date and how her breasts were far to small for that particular dress and that her knees were too knobby or whatever nonsense is running through the consulting detectives brain.

"Yes, his name's David." she chances a look at the clock. "And if I don't leave now, I'm going to be late." She turns and picks up the keys to the lab and walks up to Sherlock and John.

"I'm going to go and enjoy my night and I'm going to give you these keys and let you stay for however long you need." Sherlock starts to grin and John is about to say thank you when she continues. "On the condition that when you're done, you lock up and don't let anyone catch you." John looks proud of her and really she's proud of herself too. She hands the keys over to John and notices Sherlock analyze the move. It means that Molly trusts John more than Sherlock and going by the look on Sherlock's face, he doesn't like that one bit. She looks up at him and bites her lip, a habit that old Molly frequently indulged in.

"I'm serious Sherlock, I could lose my job over this." His brow furrows even more and he nods solemnly.

"I know. Thank you."

Molly is startled by that, in all the three years she has known him, Sherlock Holmes has never ever said thank you to her, not once. Somehow she still manages to respond without stuttering.

"Of course." She says simply and leaves it at that. She turns to walk out of the lab, hand on the door knob, when suddenly his hand is on her upper arm, gently swinging her back around. His grey blue eyes bore into her chocolate depths and she swears her heart stops beating.

"You look beautiful Molly." He murmurs earnestly. And then he's sweeping off to the table with the microscope perched atop it, his coat billowing out behind him. Molly lets herself simply stand stunned for a moment and then she calmly pushes the door open and shoves all of the feelings that Sherlock has dredged up back into there rightful places and puts them under lock and key.

Molly Hooper is determined to enjoy her night.

Too bloody damn bad that all she can focus on the entire time is the way her upper arm is burning where Sherlock touched her. The way that he's changed and the way he hasn't. And how it doesn't really matter because she'll love him either way.

Molly gets home at a decent hour and she's just too exhausted to do anything but throw her pajamas on and fall into bed. She wakes up angry because Sherlock had mucked up her date without even trying. God, she wants to kick him out of her life. Why couldn't he just let her have this one thing? Why couldn't he just stop doing charming things? She mulls the issue over as she munches on cereal, her leg bouncing. She then sits on the couch watching crap telly, then she tries to read, then she takes a shower, desperately trying to crush the urge to clean her flat. She refuses to give into it. She has re-invented herself and indulging in her little ritual will be like a relapse. She can't. She won't. Simply put: no.

In the end, it's a text that breaks her resolve:

Come to Barts immediately, if convenient. If inconvenient, come any way. We must talk-SH

She can't believe that he expects her to come at his beck and call, he is unbelievable. What if she had something to do today? Not that she did, but still! Molly is so angry that she decides not to text him back and shuts her phone off. Then she stomps to her room, yes, stomps, and snatches up her i-pod. She goes to playlists and then puts Bye, Bye, Bye on at full blast. She does the dishes, forgoing her dishwasher and instead does them by hand. She dances around as she dries the spoons, occasionally bringing them close to her lips as a pseudo microphone. Then she sweeps, acting as if the vacuum cleaner is a dance partner. Then she dusts and she even cleans her oven and stove top. Molly swears her flat has never been this clean.

Somehow, as this goes on and on, it becomes less about the outlet of cleaning and more about the outlet of dancing and singing and just letting herself have fun again.

So Molly Hooper lets go. She jumps on the bed, slides down the hallway in her socks, and her personal favorite, jumping off of the couch and attempting to do the air guitar. Needless to say, she was going to have bruised knees.

The music is so loud that Molly can't hear a thing (really, her ears should be bleeding by now.) and that's why when she is midway through doing the electric slide to I want it that way (she really doesn't know how she managed that one.) and the door flies open, she screams bloody murder. She rips the ear buds out, her chest rising and falling in a panic.

"My god Sherlock! You scared me half to death you...you...you git!" She hurries past him and firmly shuts the door, wondering if he broke it or not. She whirls around to face him and that's when she remembers the anger. Molly clenches her jaw.

"Sherlock, what are you..." Her voice fades as she really, truly looks at him. His head is hung low, his fists clenched at his sides, chest rising and falling rapidly and his eyes smouldering with anger.

Molly gulped.

"What am I doing here?" His voice is quiet and it is never good when Sherlock is associated with the word quiet. "I came here to see if you were alright. Why didn't you come to Barts? Why didn't you answer my texts? Do you know what I thought happened to you?" He took a step closer to her with every question (she's still shocked that he's asking and not deducing because really, he must know the answers to his questions. He's Sherlock for Christs sake.) and by the end he is towering over her, demanding. Molly straightens up and sets her shoulders. She refuses to be bullied.

"Why don't you just deduce it?" She asks him, the fire in her coming to life. His eyes narrow.

"You're angry with me." He tilts his head in the most endearing way. "You've decided that you want to get over me. You have convinced yourself you do not count and that I could never feel the same way as you do. When you realized that I had changed, you became frustrated and angry because you like these changes in me." Molly snapped her mouth shut when it fell open.

"No matter how many times you do that, it still amazes me." She doesn't see his soft smile. "I didn't come to Barts because I didn't want to see you because intentionally or not, you ruined my date." Molly does see his smirk though "I didn't text you because I was angry and I wanted to be left alone. And no Sherlock, I don't know what you thought had happened to me." He's scowling at her now and she almost smiles because that reminds her a lot of the old Sherlock.

"I thought that somehow I had missed one of Moriarty's men. That they had somehow eluded me and that they realized you count. No matter how much I tried to dismiss my concern with logic, the thought persisted, like an annoying itch. I thought that they took you, that I...that I...had lost you." His voice is so quiet, so broken and Molly feels instantly guilty. That's also the moment that she remembers that all she's wearing are her panties and her Doctor Who T-shirt. She feels the blush burn through her skin and she feels her heart beat wildly with something very dangerous.

Hope.

Sherlock slowly brings his hands to cup her jaw and he presses his forehead to hers.

"While I was away, I had Mycroft give my updates about you. About how you were, if you were seeing anyone. At first, I told myself it was because I was grateful for your help and I didn't want any of Moriarty's men finding out what you had done. And then I realized that it was more than that. I realized that you count, Molly Hooper. I realized that somehow, over the years, your spot in my mind palace had gone from a closet to an entire floor." He takes a deep breath, looks into her eyes, and strokes her cheek bones with his thumbs. "Molly, I...I think I love you. I'm sorry it took me so long, I'm sorry I was such a git but I want you, if you'll have me?"

Molly has to be dreaming, there is no way this is happening. She reaches down and pinches her arm. Okay, she definitely felt that. Real, then.

"Of course, I'll have you Sherlock. I love you. I love you because despite what everyone thinks and even what I think sometimes, you are a good man and I believe in you Mr. Holmes." Molly beams up at him and he grins down at her.

Ever so slowly, he presses his lips to hers. Butterflies take flight in her stomach, lights flash behind her eyes, and this kiss is all that she has ever dreamed of for so long. It's all she has ever wanted and more. It's perfection. And she deduces something about them in the way Sherlock's eye twinkles when he pulls away and the genuine smile he gives her.

Molly Hooper deduces that they have both found their homes in each other and Sherlock Holmes simply must agree.


End file.
